Ruth Woolson, Reminiscence

The organ played – harshly, sadly and slowIt would render a solemn tune, muted by a distant black crowAlone in the field the bird cackled aloudDrawing glares and scowls from the dwindling crowdThe mourners shift and stretch, yearning for the service to be doneThey are...

Carol Stowe, TERROR

When you are only 3 or 4 the terror will render you frozenMuted from the ability to cry out in fear, From expressing the horror that would be likely to crush you.The figure of a shadow could be seen heading down the hallIts image would obscure the light from the...